


Watch Over Me

by lilsmartass



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Avengers, Rescue Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsmartass/pseuds/lilsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is kidnapped by an old enemy</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG-15  
> Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine.   
> Warning/Spoilers: This part, angst in industrial amounts, but, fair warning, this fic will later contain light allusions to non-graphic, off screen torture.  
> Genre: drama, angst, hurt/comfort

They aren’t in the workshop, or their labs when JARVIS suddenly stops speaking midsentence, they’re in the kitchen. A frown creases Tony’s forehead and he looks upward towards the ceiling in a gesture he mercilessly mocks the others for doing when they speak to JARVIS. He waits a second in case it’s a glitch of some sort, and then says, “Uh...JARVIS?” There is no response. They should have left then, should have run for it, to the lab, to a wide open area where they won’t be hemmed in, outside the tower altogether. Instead, they swap puzzled looks. They aren’t even frightened; too arrogant, too _stupid_. As Avengers they are constantly under threat, but not here in the Avengers tower where every safeguard Tony Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D can devise is in place, where they are usually surrounded by superheroes. It is almost impossible to take out all the Avengers at once, and anything else is too dangerous for anyone to try on the Avengers’ own turf.

The second they spend raising eyebrows at one another, wondering what has happened to JARVIS is one second too long. The lights flicker once, and go out. The kitchen is plunged into sudden, total blackness. The sound when Tony scrapes his chair back and stands is almost unbearably loud in the suddenly enclosed and claustrophobic space. The sound of the door sliding on its runners and clicking as it locks shut seems even louder. Bruce stands too, edging subtly closer to Tony so their shoulders brush, a point of contact in the dark. “Someone is here,” he says pointlessly, unnecessarily. He thoroughly deserves the disgusted look he can feel Tony shooting at him.

Even Tony realises now isn’t the time for snide banter however, and his mind jumps ahead, racing to understand what has happened. “This is planned. The others aren’t here; we’re away from anything we could conceivably find useful, locked in a room, one of the only rooms in this tower that doesn’t have any windows.”

Bruce turns his face down to look at the floor, as though he can see right through it to the third floor where a number of members of S.H.I.E.L.D have offices. “We were betrayed,” he says, voice unwavering, he is used to being hunted. “Nobody could have planned this so exactly. No one knew we weren’t going to be at the debriefing until this morning, and it’s pure chance that we came up here for coffee.”

There is a motion next to him, and suddenly their immediate sphere is lit in ghostly blue as Tony strips off his shirt to use the ARC reactor’s light. “This is an extraction. It must be.”

“Which means one of us is expendable.”

They look at one another. “It could be about the Avengers,” Tony suggests half heartedly.

Bruce shakes his head, “No point. Killing or taking us just brings down the wrath of the others. It has to be a different agenda.”

The twist of Tony’s mouth means he agrees, “My Company and money or your powers?” He asks in a would-be flippant tone as he turns away from Bruce, casting him back into darkness and walks to the door. He fits his fingers into the join where hinges met wall and tests it. “It might have been an oversight to make all the walls and doors in this place Hulk proof. Here,” he tosses a screwdriver from his pocket to Bruce, who somehow manages to catch it despite the long shadows cast by the eerie glow, “start taking the toaster apart. See what we can build.”

Bruce isn’t very optimistic, but he does as instructed, and when that yields no results, starts on the coffee maker. “The vents?” he asks, knowing if it were an option Tony would have already have said something.

Tony doesn’t even turn around. “There’s no way in or out in this room, just that stupid little grill so I could wave Clint’s favourite curry under it to make him come out,” he says, viciously attacking the door, doing his best to jimmy the lock with a spare piece of wire pulled from the same pocket he had stuffed the screwdriver into. All they need is one spark, one second where the locks aren’t engaged. Out in the miles of corridor they can run, hide, fight, the others will be back soon, and there is no force in the world that can stand against all of them. Up until this moment, if Tony had been asked, he would have wagered himself and Bruce against any force in existence, but whoever this is has them locked down and helpless with minimal trouble so perhaps that certainty would have been optimistic. He won’t give up though, he won’t, and nor will Bruce, he thinks as Bruce starts in on the microwave, tiny remote parts and circuit boards spread out across the counter as he butchers the appliances.

There is a sudden hissing sound from above them. Bruce curses vehemently in at least four languages Tony recognises and a few he does not. He pounds the counter in frustration. Tony looks up at the vents the tower does not need with its incredibly advanced air conditioning system, but that Tony had put in, knowing Clint would get a kick out of being able to crawl around in them. He’d _joked_ about it, and now someone is using it against them, is using it to gas them while they are trapped like rats.

“I’m the target then,” says Tony tonelessly, “if they’re looking to take you out.”

“Not necessarily,” Bruce answers tightly, regaining enough control to respond. “You’re human; you can be easily shot down. And...the Other Guy’ll be hell of a lot easier to move if he’s drugged unconscious. We can’t afford to make assump- ” he cuts off, mid sentence - mid word - and swears again, but his tone isn’t angry this time. It’s soft and small and broken.

“Bruce? Bruce what is it?” no answer. “Banner?” Tony demands, fear sharpening his voice.

“It’s not a sedative. It’s a fucking stimulant.” Bruce sounds like he’s almost in tears.

For once, Tony doesn’t get it. “But...but that’ll just make you Hulk out. You’ll take apart everyone in the building. They’ll never be able to stop you, and Hulk is pretty impervious to anything they could shoot you with.”

Bruce’s face twists. “The Other Guy can’t get out of this room any better than we can until someone unlocks it. I’ll take you apart first.”

Tony doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I know you hate Hulk Banner, and I understand why, I do, but you have to give him more credit. I’ve fought beside him a dozen times; he’s saved all our lives. He can tell the difference between friend and foe.”

“Can he?” Bruce demand, composure hanging by a shred. “In the dark? Drugged half out of his mind, when _he doesn’t know you_?”

“Of course he knows me, we’ve- ”

“He knows Iron Man, you look different without the suit on. And that ARC reactor might as well be a target painted on your chest.”

The sinking feeling in Tony’s stomach is the start of a really bad feeling about this whole situation. Drugged, disorientated, blinded, not recognising him...Hulk could be a threat, and there is little Tony can do about it. He watches Bruce pace a small circle, arms crossed across his chest, hands rubbing at the skin of his arms as he fights between breathing deeply to try and calm down, and not inhaling too much of the drug too quickly. His face is mostly in shadow, and Tony can’t read his expression until he suddenly turns and looks right at him, frantic terror stark in his eyes, “You were right. It must be me they’re after. I’ve got to surrender to them.”

“No.” The Hulk might be a threat, but whatever’s out there definitely is, and ultimately, in the difference between a threat to him and a threat to Bruce...well, Cap’s sacrificial nature has apparently rubbed off on him. Bastard.

“Tony you don’t understand, I can’t-”

Tony understands perfectly. He can feel the race of his own pulse, the uneasy twitch under his skin as the stimulant does its work, “I understand. I said no. Find a different option.”

Bruce screams, a raw, destroyed sound. In the light of the reactor his eyes flare green and his muscles ripple unnaturally, but he tamps it back down firmly. “No, no, can’t, got to keep control, keep calm,” he mutters to himself and then says, “Tony _please_ , I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tony steps up close to him, toe to toe like he’s looking for a fight. He sees the adrenaline his aggressive posture sparks rise in Bruce’s eyes but he doesn’t waver. “No,” he says again, slowly and succinctly. “Now we can argue about it, or you can help me think of something else.”

Bruce looks like he badly wants to argue, but he knows if he transforms while he’s furious with Tony, Hulk will destroy him. Mouth twisting mutinously, he steps away and runs his hands through his hair. Tony stays silent, watching him, willing to trust his judgement and expertise on the Hulk now. His skin ripples again and it _hurts_ forcing back the transformation like this with his heart pounding fit to burst out of his chest. “You could knock me out,” he suggests.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That’s another fairly shit plan Banner.”

“It’s all I’ve got,” Bruce roars at him, and there must be something of the Other Guy in his face because Tony takes a step back and raises his hands placatingly.

“Ok, Ok, but then what?”

“They’ll come, they’ve got to. They’ll expect me to be willing to surrender to them to get out of here, get away from you. You can slip past, hide, get reinforceme-”

Tony shakes his head again, but in deference to Bruce’s shredding control keeps a lid on his sarcasm and says levelly, “That’s me giving you up by any other name. And they expect me to be here right? They’ll have armed men in the doorway. I can’t fight my way through that without the suit. I’m not Natasha.”

Bruce swallows the acidic fear in his throat. No, Tony is so very very fragile without his suits, fragile in way he can’t ever imagine Natasha being. “You have to let them take me. It’s the only way.” It’s supposed to be a reasoned argument. It comes out a plea. Tony is silent, face set in a small stubborn frown as he considers and disregards options at lightning fast speed. The furrow in his brow deepens as Bruce scream-roars again skin flashing green and bulging before he ruthlessly forces it back to human normal. “Tony,” he gasps helplessly, not sure what he is even asking for. He cries out again, arching back against the pain. When the surge of agony passes and he finds himself panting for air, Tony’s warm, strong arms are around him. He can feel the ARC reactor buzzing against his skin, soothing in a strange way. “Tony,” he whimpers again.

“It’s alright,” Tony says, calm and quiet and sure. Bruce can feel his breath as he holds him through another seizure. “Easy, easy Big Guy.”

Bruce forces himself to straighten, to look Tony in the eye. “I can’t hold him. I can’t- You have to-”

Tony’s jaw tightens, but he nods. “I will. But I won’t leave you Bruce. Whoever wants you enough to break into my fucking house will come through me first.”

Bruce tries to laugh. It sounds like a sob. “Don’t die.”

The smirk looks almost devilish illuminated only in the blue light of the reactor. “The nuke didn’t kill me, what makes you think whoever this bastard is can?”

He opens his mouth to retort that all the improbable things Tony has lived through in the past have always been faced whilst wearing his armour. He doesn’t even see the blow coming, though it rocks his head sharply to the side. It doesn’t knock him out though, not all the way, can’t with the Other Guy rising so close to the surface. He roars, at least it’s more manly than a scream. He’s pretty sure he’s ruptured something inside trying not to transform. “Again,” he says, guttural, barely understandable. The last thing he sees is the glittering fury in Tony’s eyes before the second blow lands.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Tony catches Bruce when he slumps unconscious, face already bruising purple, into his arms and lowers him gently to the ground. He’s breathing hard, part relief that he was even able to take out Bruce with Hulk so close to getting out, part white hot anger that he should have to do that at all. Bruce is the gentlest, best person he knows; Bruce who was so worried about hurting Tony he was willing to sacrifice himself to whoever this is without even knowing who it is or what they are likely to do to him and he’s been rewarded by a punch to the face. It makes Tony feel sick.

Without someone to talk to, the kitchen feels even more claustrophobic than it did before. Tony takes a moment to attempt to calm his own breathing _darkalonefearfearfear_ and to wipe the furious tears from being forced to hit Bruce from his eyes. He considers his options for a moment, but there aren’t many, aren't any, not really. What’s he going to do? Put his shirt back on to hide the ARC reactor’s glow and crouch in the dark, hope they don’t see him? Even if that had a hope in hell of working he wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t want to take the risk of being gunned down while he knelt behind some mundane object like a child playing hide and seek. A few strides take him across the room and he yanks open the cutlery draw: forks, spoons, normal knives...but no sharp knives, not even steak knives. “Fuck,” Tony swore, loudly, remembering abruptly that Steve had confiscated them after finding Natasha and Clint throwing them at one another and making a game out of snagging them out of the air. Tony had encouraged him on, joking that they needed a mother, calling him Wendy.

He slams the drawer shut, not caring about the noise he was making. They knew he was up here. “Stupid Steve and his stupid safety,” he mutters, mostly to keep himself company. It’s not like a stupid little steak knife is going to make any real difference anyway, but it would have made him feel better.

A sudden noise outside the door sends him back across the kitchen to Bruce. He hovers protectively over his friend’s body, standing square onto the door, arms slightly spread instead of crossed like they want to be to provide as a big a shield as possible. He won’t let whoever is out there touch Bruce. He _won’t_.

The door slides open a crack and Tony’s body twitches forward towards freedom, but he doesn’t move. To move is to leave Bruce vulnerable. “Banner!” a voice shouts and the hairs on the back on Tony’s neck stand on end. He knows that voice. That voice belongs to the man at the top of his people-to-discredit-and/or-financially-ruin list. When he had hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D’s files, he hadn’t just found Fury’s secrets, he’d found Bruce’s. He’d seen what General Ross had done to him, had wanted to do to him if the experiments had been allowed to continue, and though he’s never said anything – he wouldn’t want anyone to see footage of his time in Afghanistan, certainly not someone he respects, though he knows he didn’t conduct himself with a fraction the dignity Bruce had somehow managed despite half agreeing with his captors in a way Tony had never done – he has vowed in the bitterest and most ruthless parts of his heart that this man will pay. “Banner!” Ross shouts again, arrogant and certain of an answer. Tony’s lip curls in a sneer, he expects Bruce to be begging to be taken into his protective custody, anything to get away from Tony.

“Bruce isn’t here right now,” he calls back, sing-song and mocking, “but if you want to leave a message...”

The door slides all the way open and he’s greeted with General Ross himself and what seems to be half a battalion, all pointing guns at him. He wants to flinch, doesn’t, won’t give Ross the satisfaction. “Where is he?”

“Safe,” Tony snarls back, and for a second it seems like his hide-in-the-dark plan might work, but then someone catches sight of something odd about the way he is standing and gestures to the shape at his feet.

“He’s there sir. He’s already down,” an audible sigh of relief runs through the soldiers, but Tony tenses still further, straightens his spine until he thinks something might snap.

“Get out,” he says, in as even a voice as he can muster, “You’re breaking and entering.”

“Stand away Stark. Banner is army property.”

Tony has never wanted so much to spit in someone’s face. “Bruce is no one’s _property_ , least of all yours.”

“I will shoot,” the General warns and a dozen hammers draw back to add weight to his claim.

Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as flicker, despite the fear and adrenaline and stimulant eating away at his resolve to remain motionless. “You can’t shoot me.” He gives a colder, icier version of the smirk he perfected before he was ten, “Don’t you know who I am.”

“I know there’s no one who’d mourn your death. You’re an arrogant little shit, worthless, reckless and too rich for your own good.”

Coming from someone else Tony might have been hurt. The sentence struck at every one of his secret insecurities, but he knows the General hasn’t even thought about him enough to have formed that opinion, he’s just regurgitating old media headlines. He widens his smirk. “No one likes me Ross? My best friends are superheroes. You really want Captain America and the God of fucking Thunder out for your blood? They get a little antsy when morale is low and killing me? That will lower morale. They’ll need a group bonding activity, like removing all of your bones without killing you.” He’s not kidding, Natasha has a story where one of her pre-S.H.I.E.L.D employers actually taught her to do that as an interrogation method. Natasha is banned from telling this-one-time stories about her past.

“No one even knows we’re here.”

“Kill me,” Tony promises viciously, “and there will be an investigation. Steve Rogers and Pepper Potts will see to that. They will know you were here, even if they can’t pin anything on you officially, the Avengers _will_ know you were here.” He risks a small step forward. “Care to risk it?”

“Take him down,” the General orders a group of his men and this time Tony does flinch, thinking all of his big words are still going to end with a bullet to the head. Instead a group of four rise and charge him. He fights back, he doesn’t know how not to, and there are advantages to regularly sparring with a super soldier, a demigod, and two trained assassins. He sends the first reeling back with a quick uppercut, the second falls to the ground wheezing with a well placed elbow, but the third gets in a direct strike to his chest that doubles him over and the forth grabs his arms, pinning them back, and he can’t really move, not without leaving Bruce easy pickings. He kicks out with his feet, aiming low and snapping the knee of the first guy, still shaking his ringing head as he steps forward once more.

It isn’t enough. Of course it isn’t enough. He’s one man against an army. He lets himself go slack and limp in their arms, trying to use his dead weight to pull free. It doesn’t work, and they drag him to the side of the room while Ross gestures with a flick of his fingers for two more to drag Bruce out. “Leave him alone,” Tony demands, a low feral growl at odds with the tears of sheer frustration at the corners of his eyes. They aren’t gentle with him and Tony struggles like a wild thing to break free. Ross steps up to him. Now Tony does have the ability to spit in his face and he does. Ross looks fantastically unphased. “You can’t kill me,” Tony reminds him, “And I will find you. And when I do, I’ll have my full Iron Man arsenal to back me up.”

“Iron Man attacking an American Army officer? I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D will sanction that.”

Tony doesn’t give a damn what S.H.I.E.L.D do or don’t sanction. He will find Bruce. He bites the words back, there is simply nothing to be gained and everything to lose from angering the General now. It is not him being held at this man’s doubtable mercy. He lowers his eyes, even though it kills him to do so, and rasps out, “Don’t hurt him.” He can’t bring himself to beg, but the waver he can’t keep out of his voice stops the words from being a threat either.

Ross smiles condescendingly. “He’s just an animal Stark, he doesn’t even feel pain like we do.”

Tony lunges forward. He feels the pop as his shoulder, held firm by the soldier behind him, dislocates, but he manages to smash his forehead into the General’s nose. He steps back, stunned and bleeding, and a cry is wrenched from Tony as he too is jerked back by his guards. “You even think about touching him and I swear to God I’ll-”

“And what? What are you and God going to do about it?”

Tony can’t even speak, can only spit incoherently. Ross looks over his shoulder and gives a jerky nod. Tony tries to turn, but the motion makes agonising pain flare in his shoulder and he hisses like a scalded cat, yelps when he’s spun round. The pain is so much, so nauseating that he can’t even fight back as they slam his head into a wall. The blackness comes as a relief.


	3. Chapter 3

When Bruce regains consciousness, the first thing he is aware of is the noise of a helicopter and the enclosed feeling of too many people clustered around him. He can smell dust and metal and the familiar tang of fear. “Tony?” he rasps weakly.

The sight of General Ross as he leans too far into his personal space makes him want to change, and his eyes must have flashed green because Ross draws back a little even as he smirks and says, “We had to kill him to get his to leave your side and I’m sure you wouldn’t want any more innocent deaths on your conscience.” Bruce howls like an animal, pain and fear and grief and _certainty_ that he would release the Other Guy now and kill everyone on this helicopter roaring through him. The General regards him for a second before smiling and leaning in close once more. “We finally synthesised a drug that’ll keep even you docile Banner.”

Bruce’s eyes bore into his. He’s pretty sure that even Steve could have managed anger if not outright hatred but the best he can manage is a sort of broken horror that he had allowed his best friend to die for him. “You didn’t have to kill him.”

“We did actually. He was most...persistent. How did a monster like you inspire such devotion?”

Bruce really has no idea. He thinks of saying something flippant about it being impossible to understand the mind of Tony Stark, but knows he will choke on Tony’s name and so says nothing and merely shrugs. “What are you going to do with me?” He doesn’t really care, but anything is better than the silence of his own thoughts right now.

“Tests. See how the Hulk works, how it might be used for practical, reliable purposes. Maybe find a cure, if we’re lucky.” Bruce nods, unmoved even by the unexpected carrot amongst the sticks. “No questions?” the General asks, surprised. Bruce knows what he means, knows he means _no fighting Banner? You’re going to co-operate?_ But he shakes his head anyway. He could argue that he has a practical purpose, even as the Other Guy, could argue that both of them are Avengers. Tony would, but he’s just Bruce, and he doesn’t have the energy. Even useful, and doing good, even _controlling_ the Other Guy he’d managed to get someone killed. At least he could rely on the fact that the General would never let him out of whichever cage he threw him. He’d never harm anyone again.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony wakes up to someone tapping his face and an overly concerned Captain America bending over him. “Tony? Tony?”

He cracks his eyes open, identifies the pain lancing straight into his brain at the meagre light as a concussion, mutters something unintelligible and closes his eyes again.

“Tony!” Steve’s voice is sharper now. “I need to know what happened. Are you alright? Where’s Bruce?”

Tony frowns slightly. Why is he being yelled at? He’s obviously hurt so he must have done something awesome and heroic and Bruce? What? He’s not Bruce’s keeper, Steve’s the leader and Clint’s their eyes why doesn’t one of them know where... “Bruce,” he says sitting up, or trying to as it all comes flooding back.

Big, warm hands ease his way, and he realises Thor is there too, and Pepper. Three sets of eyes look at him worriedly. “That’s what I said,” Steve confirms, “Where’s-”

“Ross has him,” Tony answers, babbles, “There was an attack, there’s an infiltrator in S.H.I.E.L.D, someone in our building and they took him Steve, I promised I’d protect him and I-”

“Calm,” Steve orders gently, “and drink something.” He pushes a water bottle at Tony who takes it, looks at it uncertainly and is promptly sick all over his own knees and Steve’s hands. Pepper wrinkles her nose, but at least doesn’t say anything.

Steve makes the deeply distressed sound of a trodden on kitten that under other circumstances would have made Tony laugh. “We have to find him,” he says instead.

“We will,” Steve soothes automatically. “You need to tell me what happened, in order, slow enough to be understandable.”

Even with the light stabbing his eyes, and the pain in his head making him feel like giving up and dying, Tony is ready to recount the whole story here if it will make Steve find Bruce a little faster, but he is momentarily distracted by the entrance of Clint and Natasha, side by side, twin grim expressions. “How is he?”

It isn’t until that moment that Tony has truly considered the fact that Ross and his men had full run of the tower. “I’m fine,” he waves the question away. “How’s the damage?” He shifts his gaze to Pepper. “Are you Ok?”

“I’m fine. I wasn’t even here. I was wining and dining a member of the board.”

Natasha interrupts her. “There’s no mess. This was definitely an inside job.”

Tony uses Thor’s arm as a lever to drag himself to his feet, ignoring both the muffled wheezing which is his only way of drawing breath right now and the only partially stifled whimpers the action draws from him. Clint shakes his head at him. “You’re only allowed to get hurt if you look cool doing it Stark. You know the rules.”

“I looked cool,” Tony shoots back, tragically aware that sarcasm loses all impact when you’re almost inaudible from lack of air.

“Yeah I’m sure you looked awesome getting your head bashed in.” Clint’s face turns stone, “Who did it?”

“Some redshirt. It was a General Ross operation though, and Natasha’s right. Someone must have supplied them the information. Someone in S.H.I.E.L.D.” It hurts more than whatever is grating in his chest to acknowledge that someone who should have protected them had sold Bruce.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks. He sounds distressed.

“Yes,” Tony snarls, no time or energy to deal with Steve’s inclination to trust authority right now.

“No,” Clint interjects. “We just know it wasn’t one of us. Anyone who isn’t an Avenger...” His eyes lock onto Pepper speculatively.

“No,” says Tony. “No. I know what you’re thinking and stop it.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“No Barton, it isn’t. And it isn’t going to be a question at all or I’m going to have to kill you.” It’s a pitiful threat at best because he can actually barely stand, Thor taking more of his weight than he’s really comfortable with, but he means every word. “It could just as easily be one of you. You’re both S.H.I.E.L.D agents first.”

“You don’t seriously-”

“Of course I don’t,” shouts Tony, and then hisses at the pain in his chest the action causes. “But I don’t believe that Pepper betrayed us either.”

“Nor do I,” Thor says in his rumbling baritone, and nods his acknowledgement of the appreciative smile Pepper shoots him.

Clint concedes the point. “Fine. Anyone not in this room isn’t to be trusted.” Steve makes a low noise of possible objection in his throat, but Clint turns his cold furious glare on him and says, “I mean it Cap. This is an inside job, I’d stake my life on it.”

Steve flicks his eyes to Natasha, seeking a second option, and she relaxes her jaw in the way she has which counts as a smile and says, “I’d stake his life on it too.” Clint twitches and she spares him half a glance, “What? I’m Russian, I don’t gamble with things I couldn’t bear to lose.”

“Oh that’s nice Nat, real nice,” Clint drawls.

Whatever Steve might and might not think about distrusting S.H.I.E.L.D, he trusts Natasha and Clint’s judgement and instinctively draws in front of Tony in a protective wall when a S.H.I.E.L.D agent takes that moment to enter the room. “Uh,” the agent stammers, most likely more than a little disconcerted at the sight of five angry avengers glaring at him, three of them ostentatiously fingering their weapons in clear, if unspoken, threat. “First aid kit?”

Natasha takes it with curt thanks that makes it clear the agent is dismissed. He gratefully scuttles out. She steps past Steve and up to Tony, light hands running over him. She isn’t as skilled as Bruce, but she and Clint have both taken extensive first aid courses, a necessity in their line of work, and one or both of them often functions as a secondary medic. She purses her lips and makes an unhappy sound which causes Tony to step back into Thor. He’s now being, well, embraced, which is not something he’s strictly comfortable with, but it puts a little space between him and the assassin. “Not that I object to having a pretty lady put her hands all over me, but you do know Pepper’s standing right there.”

Natasha looks distinctly unimpressed and Pepper simply smiles sweetly and says, “It’s Ok Tony, you’re the only one here who never learnt how to share.”

Natasha turns to Steve and says, “Dislocated shoulder, mild concussion, at least two, maybe three, broken ribs. He needs a hospital.”

Tony wonders if he should maybe be offended at the fact that she isn’t even discussing his medical condition with him, but, he admits, if only privately to himself, he doesn’t exactly have the best record of taking his own injuries seriously. “I’m fine,” he says, just to prove his own point. “We need to find Bruce.”

“We will,” says Steve, “but you need to rest and heal too Tony.”

He’s standing close, but not close enough to whisper to. Nonetheless, Tony speaks only to him, trying to convey in his eyes what he could say to Steve alone but can’t say here while they all watch, “We have to find him fast. You know who General Ross is? What he’ll do?”

“I know.”

“I-” _I promised I wouldn’t leave him, that I’d have his back_ “I want to help.”

“Tony, you need-”

“You can.” Everyone turns to look at Pepper. “You need to have your bones and head looked at. I’ll meet you at the hospital with your equipment and you can start hacking and tracking.”

Tony scowls mutinously, like a child hell bent on staying up past bedtime, but it’s a fair compromise and the best he’s likely to get. “I just have to let them put me back together?”

She nods.

“I’ll drive you,” Steve offers.

“We’ll talk to Fury, let him know there’s a mole.”

“If this was planned...If S.H.I.E.L.D authorised this-”

Clint nods once, eyes mirroring the fierceness in Tony’s tone as he meets his eyes, “I’ll put a bullet in Fury myself.”


	5. Chapter 5

It takes four days to locate Bruce, and by then Tony’s as anxious as he’s ever been. He’s still in hospital, supposedly under observation, but no one’s come to do any observing in hours. A bored, worried Tony Stark does not make a fun patient, all the nurses agree, hiding out in the corridor and drawing lots over who has to go in and check his chart every couple of hours. His sharp tongue, made vicious by fear and confinement has stopped the others even finding time to stop by and check on him, except Steve who drops in for an hour or so every evening to lose at cards and give him an update on what the others have learned that day.

Fury swears up and down that it wasn’t a S.H.I.E.L.D operation, and Tony is willing to concede that that is likely true. He knows Fury fought to instigate the Avengers Initiative, it makes little sense now to alienate them. It doesn’t change the fact that someone with access to considerable S.H.I.E.L.D resources betrayed them. Fury says he’ll conduct an internal investigation, Tony thinks that’s less likely, and has set a tracker programme through the personnel files to find out who was there that night who would have had access and motive. That’ll take time to run though, and he’s distracted from dwelling on it when he finally manages to break the inscription on a military communiqué which details the renovations made to an underground bunker in the Arizona desert. He also mages to find an invoice detailing a massive order of the materials he bought, hell that he _designed_ , for Hulk proofing. A little more digging tells him the bunker is equipped with laboratories specifically for the study of radiation. Bullseye.

Despite having been cursing his isolation for days, he now takes a moment to be grateful even Pepper wasn’t willing to put up with him in this state as he forces himself to standing and begins the slow process of dressing himself. He manages, mostly, there’s no practical way of doing his tie when he can’t really do anything with his right shoulder and bending to put his shoes on leaves him lightheaded, but he looks normal again, if a little pale and banged up. It’s not even that hard to sneak out of the hospital. It’s not a S.H.I.E.L.D run medi ward, there’s no real security and everyone is studiously looking away from his door, like he might eviscerate them with his wit if he thinks they’re staring. It’s pretty funny actually, but makes him think Pepper might have a point when she chides him about his manners.

Steve is less than impressed when he (finally, without use of his car because any of his drivers would definitely tell Pepper) makes his way into the tower. Despite the scowl though, Steve gestures for him to sit, mostly because it’s either that or watch him collapse because he’s winded pretty badly. God he hates broken ribs. The team are in one of the sitting rooms, a fact for which Tony is grateful. As soon as he feels well enough he’s going to rip out and remodel that kitchen. He never wants to see it again. “What are you doing here?” The Captain demands.

Tony holds a hand up. A silent plea for Steve to wait and bends over, putting his hands on his knees as he draws in another few laboured breaths. “I know where Bruce is,” he says when he can speak again.

Four pairs of eyes sharpen instantly in his direction, instantly forgetting what they are doing. The blue sharpie with which Steve was drawing on the map spread in front of him and Clint is pressing a blue circle into the back of his hand, and a bullet from the gun Natasha is meticulously checking slides from the chamber and rolls, unacknowledged across the floor. “Where?” Steve prompts at last.

Tony folds his arms and sets his jaw. “I want to go with you.”

Perhaps realising he is the most tactful person in the room. A feat not unheard of when Steve can’t rely on Fury to play the hardass or when Bruce isn’t there to play the peace maker, but still unusual, Thor takes it upon himself to speak. “Friend Stark, you are still damaged from your last encounter. You cannot-”

“I can. And I’m coming.”

Thor opens his mouth to speak again, but Steve beats him to it. “No.”

“No? That’s it? I’m not a child, you can’t just-”

“I can and I am. Now where is he?”

Tony bites on his lip. “I’m coming, or I won’t tell you where he is and I’ll go on my own.”

Steve looks furious, “You’re going to risk Bruce’s life with your petulance?” he demands.

“I promised I wouldn’t let them have him,” he snaps back, only not standing because just the thought of that made his side ache like white hot glass was imbedded in it, as four days of tension and fear boils over.

Steve’s eyes and voice soften but his tone is still uncompromising as he says, “You’re hurt Tony. If you come with us, you’ll be nothing but a liability.”

It’s true, and Tony knows it, and he knows he’ll never forgive himself if another one of his team gets hurt because of him. It doesn’t stop the words finding their mark and he knows Steve can see him take the hit in his eyes. He should trust them, should trust his team to do what he cannot but...but it’s Bruce and this is his promise and he’s not some army wife god-dammit, he can’t just sit here, waiting for news. “C’mon Cap,” he says, pleads truthfully, “I must be able to do something.”

You’ve done your part,” says Steve, and Tony knows it’s not meant as condemnation, but it’s how he hears it. And Steve’s right. He’s the one who let Bruce get taken.

“He’s in Arizona,” he says, sliding slip of paper he had scrawled the co-ordinates onto across the table where Clint instantly snags it and puts his finger unerringly onto the spot on the map.

“You’re sure?” Steve questions.

“Certain.”    

Steve nods, he doesn’t need to ask more. With Bruce’s life on the line he can trust Tony to be as thorough as is humanly, as JARVIS-ly, possible. “Alright then,” he stands chivalrously, gesturing for Tony to take his chair.

“Not that I don’t love your manners Cap, but I’m fine here.”

“You need to be able to see the map, we could use your help planning.”

Tony quirks a tiny smile, he knows they don’t need him; this is just Steve throwing him a bone, and switches seats. Steve places a hand on the backrest, leaning forward so he can see too as Clint starts gesturing at possible routes. He stares hard at the map, his brilliant brain whirring as he seeks for a way to help Bruce, but the travel has tired him and his injuries are draining. He slumps sideways slightly, and Steve, without pausing in his discussion with Clint, unobtrusively moves his arm to give him something to lean against. It doesn’t take long for Tony to sink down into sleep.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The fight does not go as planned. Everything that can go wrong does go wrong. Most of it goes wrong twice. They have to incapacitate Ross’ men without lasting damage. They can’t actually just gun through the American Army. They already get enough bad press for destroying buildings, and being outside the law and, whilst by this point, Tony would willingly risk it, Steve flat out refuses to rescue Bruce just to see him thrown in another cell. A consideration Tony grudgingly agrees has merit.

From the pilot’s seat in the Quinjet, having convinced Steve that he was able to at least be the getaway driver, Tony watches with an increasingly pinched expression as JARVIS pulls up security feeds to show him Thor pinned down by a Hulk Buster squadron, not really in any danger of being hurt, but unable to release any thunder, lightning or his full strength on them either. Natasha had taken an early bullet to the shoulder by an extremely lucky (or unlucky if she finds out who it was) perimeter guard. She doesn’t look to be badly injured, though the black of her suit is undoubtedly hiding an impressive bloodstain, but she’s stopped using that arm altogether, and Clint has given up on his usual tactic of finding the highest point possible and picking off the enemies from a distance in favour of protecting her weakened side. In a different room, Steve is disarmed and facing off against General Ross holding a standard issue revolver. Tony would pay good money to be able to hear what is happening, not just watch, he doesn’t think that Ross will hurt Steve, for much the reason they can’t hurt his soldiers regardless of what they might’ve done to Bruce, it just won’t be good press to put a bullet in Captain America of all people. Nonetheless, Ross and Steve are locked into an immoveable stalemate, neither likely to gain the upper hand until there is a significant change in their forces.

Tearing his eyes away from the screen, reminding himself again that Ross is unlikely to shoot Steve and that his suit is more or less bullet proof anyway (seriously, Tony had put some serious lab time into creating a material that still held true to Coulson’s design but that was more durable than fucking spandex) and wishing that the others had comms and hadn’t been forced to go into this mission running silent so that Tony could at least give them warnings and updates, he cycles through the camera feeds once more. He stops when he finds what he’s looking for. The observation camera set up on Bruce in the lab.

He’s cuffed down to a medical trolley, a flimsy sheet over his hips, a pitiful lip service to Bruce’s dignity and probably only uncomfortable now that it is drenched with sweat. The weeping abrasions on his wrists show he’s tugged and pulled desperately at the cuffs, possibly even changed whilst wearing them judging on how deep some of the wounds look, which means they’re reinforced titanium at the very least. He’s white faced, straining and shaking on the trolley, bare chest heaving with some effort. He’s tossing his head back and arching his back under the sheet in a way that, under different circumstances would have Tony making lewd jokes, but like this, when obviously caused by obscene pain just make him feel sick. He doesn’t even know what’s in the IV hooked up to Bruce’s arm, but he doesn’t care, he just wants to rip it out and make it stop what he’s doing. Tony casts an eye over the blueprints for the bunker. Thor’s the nearest and he isn’t going anywhere if the new lines of soldiers filing in behind the ones Thor is currently slinging around like children’s toys are any indication. Natasha and Clint have finally disabled the last of their opponents, but are turning the wrong way down a corridor, heading away from Bruce. “No, no, no,” Tony curses, slamming the flat of his hand down on the control panel and swearing again as he immediately has to cancel all of alerts that brings up. He curses their lack of comms once more.

On screen, Bruce’s back arches again and his mouth opens on what is clearly a scream of agony. He turns his face away from the camera, though whether by accident or design Tony isn’t sure, and not before Tony has seen the tears leaving grimy tracks on his white face. That decides it. Promise to Steve or no promise to Steve he can’t just leave Bruce there, not like that, not when there’s no help coming for goodness knows how long. He winces as he stands.

His suit isn’t even here. Steve wouldn’t let him bring it, not even as precaution, knowing all too well that the injuries which would at least remind Tony that he had made a promise to stay out of the combat, and why such a promise was necessary, would not keep Iron Man from jumping into the fray. And he knows Steve has a point because he’s a genius, not a moron, but he can see from his displays that there are no soldiers left, they’re all taken up fighting the others. If he had comms he’d tell them to keep the combat going, they’re an excellent distraction. Besides, there’s a clear path through to the lab Bruce’s in, there’s no reason for anyone to even see him, so he’s not even _really_ breaking his promise to Steve. He won’t _be_ in combat.

It’s surprisingly easy to sneak through the base. Tony had thought it would be much harder considering the fuss Natasha makes about how much training and experience she’s had when she insists on being the one to do the most dangerous pieces of undercover or espionage. He’s sure his sudden presence has started at least one alarm, but there’s already a dozen sirens and flashing lights so no one notices. The hardest part is picking the door lock on the lab, and even that only takes five minutes, only takes that long because his hands are shaking because he’s so desperate to get in. When the lock does finally disengage, he’s grateful to the military grade soundproofing that had kept the noises Bruce is making on the inside. He would never have been able to calm himself enough to get the door open if he’d been able to hear the pitiful whimpers that would probably be less soul destroying if they were screams. It does funny things to his insides to know that Stark Industries made and sold the materials able to keep Bruce locked in this room.     

He takes a moment to shut, and after a split second of consideration, lock, the door behind him. He isn’t sure how long it will take to get Bruce out of the restraints, or what kind of state he’ll be in. Slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a wounded animal – and he knows Bruce would hate to be thought of like that, but it’s all he can think after hearing that pathetic mewling sounds that are apparently all Bruce is capable of now – he puts a gentle hand on the scientist’s shoulder. “Bruce?” he asks uncertainly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning/Spoilers: This part, angst in industrial amounts. This is the chapters which references the darker aspects of the fic. Oh and there’s quite a lot of swearing in this one.

Bruce hears someone come in, hears their tentative footsteps – _always so fucking tentative, even when they’ve got him drugged and unable to summon the Other Guy no matter what they pump into his veins and how much it fucking hurts_ – and he turns his face away further, burying it in his shoulder. It wrenches at his neck to twist like that, and forces another low sound from his throat, and he knows it won’t help, knows they’ll see his tears anyway. Whoever it is takes a soft step forward, his skin crawls as they touch him and he clamps down on a scream, “Bruce?” they say hesitantly.

His heart twists, half because they sound like Tony, a reminder he could live without, and half because the soft, uncertain voice means it’s one of the nice ones. He hates the nice ones more than he hates the ones who treat him like he’s no more than a vicious lab rat. He hates the constant pity in their eyes – _he used to be an Avenger dammit, he’d saved the world, he doesn’t need their fucking pity_ – and the way that they remind him of what he used to be. They make it worse; they stop him just breaking and being done with it.

“Bruce?” says the voice again, and this time there’s a sharper edge to it, anger he knows, he couldn’t not recognise it, being so intimately connected to the emotion. He can’t suppress the flinch and the awful thought that maybe it’s _not_ one of the nice ones, maybe it’s one of the ones who likes to pretend to be nice just to take more pleasure in his suffering, has him biting down hard on the inside of his cheek until his mouth fills with blood to stop the whimpers. He wishes he could curl into a ball like any other small wounded animal cornered by a predator, but the chains on his wrists prevent him from doing so. His flinch has displaced the sheet which was barely clinging to his hips and though he is far, far past shame he feels a blush stain his cheeks anyway.

Whoever it is makes a low appalled sound at the sight of him as he lies helplessly exposed. It deepens the colour on his cheekbones. He presses his face tighter into his shoulder and holds himself perfectly still, even as the tears start up again. The surprisingly gentle hand tightens fractionally lands on his shoulder. “Hey,” says the voice, “C’mon buddy, I know you’re conscious. Say _something_.”

Now the voice reminds him of Tony so much he can’t stop the broken noise creeping out of his throat. He keens for a second and then sinks his teeth deeply into his shoulder to stop himself. He relishes the sharp bite of pain which grounds him, if only for a moment, against the creeping agony in his very blood that the IV bag is pumping into him. The hand whips back as though burned and there is a low curse behind him. “Alright, you don’t feel up to speaking. That’s fine; this is an awkward time to have a conversation anyway.” Bruce wishes they’d stop rambling, it’s too much like Tony, too much to be a coincidence, which means this is definitely a mind game of some sort and that’s just _fucking fantastic_. He wishes he could Hulk out and take this man’s head off his body, hating that they’re using Tony’s memory this way. It’s bad enough that the man had died trying to save him, without using him against him like this. There’s a pause and then the same warm fingers are pressing against his arm where the line sinks in just below his brachial pulse.

It takes all the fight out of his wire tense muscles like nothing else could. He doesn’t twitch away, can’t really, the line is like a fucking leash. The human warm fingers feel like they’re burning where they push against the cold flesh, icy from the less than room temperature solution entering the vein there. He lets go of the flesh of his shoulder, still clenched between his teeth and says, “Don’t please, not another one, I can’t take another one, please. The drug works, the Other Guy isn’t coming out, I can’t feel him at all. Please don’t-” The ones like this like it when he begs. Sometimes it satisfies them.

“Bruce...don’t. I won’t hurt you...well...this probably will hurt but-” there’s a sharp hitch of breath, as though the voice really does have to steel himself against whatever it is he’s about to do, and Bruce too tenses in anticipation then there’s a sharp pinch to his arm and the tube is pulled free.

He waits, breath baited for whatever is coming next. “Well?” he eventually prompts as the tension ratchets.

“Nothing, all done,” says the voice.

And that does what nothing else could, snaps Bruce’s face to the speaker to evaluate them. It’s Tony.

Bruce knows in theory that surgery could alter someone, knows that even back in the 40s Hydra had been able to create undetectable fake faces, but the sight of him standing there, customary insouciant smirk firmly in place but eyes full of worry and fury and some nameless not-quite-pity emotion still ties Bruce’s insides in knots leave him gasping. He tries to scowl, tries to snarl, but knows he fails miserably at both and manages to rasp a dry, “Who are you?” instead.

Not-Tony’s eyebrow twitches minutely. “I’m Luke Skywalker, I’m here to rescue you,” he cracks and when that doesn’t raise so much as a glimmer of a smile or a single joke about short stormtroopers, his smirk fades and the concern in his eyes deepens. “It’s me. It’s Tony.”

“Tony’s dead,” Bruce says, doing an admirable impression of matter of fact, even if his hands are curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, “So who are you?”

The outrage on Not-Tony’s face is perfect. “I’m not dead,” he insists, “not the last time I checked.” The quirk at the corner of his mouth is just the expression Tony would wear in this circumstance; the warm brown eyes are filled with nothing but sincerity and compassion. No one could emulate Tony this perfectly. No one. Except Pepper maybe, but Bruce doesn’t believe – won’t believe – that she’s the one who betrayed them, that she’s involved; or maybe Bruce himself.

He forces himself to look away from the sight. He knows they’re monitoring him; it makes no sense for them not to be. “This drug has hallucinogenic properties,” he calls out. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Hey,” Not-Tony objects, “I’m way too awesome to be a hallucination. The lengths some people will go to to avoid being Princess Leia in this scenario.”

Bruce closes his eyes again. It doesn’t stop the tears seeping down his face but he can’t look at Not-Tony any longer. If he looks any longer, he’ll start to respond, start to believe and that way lies madness. He can’t be allowed to lose himself, if he does, he really will be nothing but the animal, nothing but the blunt instrument Ross seeks to make him.

“You’re right. Rescue first, convince you I’m real after,” says Not-Tony. He’s trying for his own matter of fact tone, but Bruce can tell he’s upset _except he’s not because he’s not really here._ Not-Tony’s warm fingers jangle the chains at his wrists and he stifles another low moan as they touch the worst and deepest of the cuts. “Sorry, sorry,” Not-Tony mutters, but doesn’t cease his exploration. “These are pure adamatium, no wonder you couldn’t break them, thank god for Natasha’s mandatory lock picking class.” There’s another jangle, a long burst of hot pain as the cuffs press in exactly the wrong place and then they snap free.

In his mind, Bruce rolls off the trolley, landing on his feet and heads for the door, but he knows his treacherous and drugged body won’t support him and he will only land crumpled and vulnerable on the floor. Assuming he’s really free and this isn’t some kind of bad trip. He does roll onto his side though, drawing his abused wrists into his chest seeking a comfortable position after being tied for so many hours. Not-Tony is, much like the real Tony, unwilling to let Bruce have the peace he craves. “C’mon Brucie, up and at ‘em,” he coaxes, half helping, half pulling him into a sitting position.

Bruce opens his eyes and gives a weak version of his usual I-WILL-Hulk-out-and-EAT-you-if-you-don’t-leave-me-the-fuck-alone-Tony scowl. “You’re not real.”

Not-Tony scowls right back. “I really really am.” He hesitates a second then grabs Bruce’s hand. His grip is firm and sure but still so very aware of the wounds on his wrist that a twist of sheer longing for his home in the Avenger’s tower, for the others, brings tears to Bruce’s eyes. He hopes that the hallucinogenic aspect of this drug is an unfortunate side effect; surely no one could deliberately want him to feel this just to take it away again. “Sorry,” Not-Tony says, misinterpreting the tears, and he places Bruce’s hand flat against his chest, against the ARC reactor. It’s warm and hard and smooth and Bruce can feel the vibrations as it works shooting all the way up his arm. “Can’t fake that,” Not-Tony smirks, challenging Bruce to deny it.

Bruce runs his fingers over the solid shape, feeling how the vibrations change when he pushes against the edges instead of the centre, how he can still feel them even with his palm against Tony’s ribs instead. Tony tenses under the exploration and his eyes sharpen warily, but he allows it without comment. “Ok,” says Bruce after a few more seconds, “Ok. Let’s assume you are Tony. How?”

Maybe-Tony shakes his head, “Out of here first, explanations later.”

Uncertainty in the validity of this vision creeps through him and some of it must show in his face because Maybe-Tony lowers his voice in that way he uses to talk down the Other Guy and says, “The others are running distraction for us, we need to go.” Bruce still doesn’t say anything, just pushes harder against the gently whirring ARC reactor, trying to recapture some of the tentative hope he’d felt moments ago and Maybe-Tony continues, “Look, worst case scenario I’m either a hallucination and you’re just dreaming, in which case, I’m in it so it’s an awesome dream, or I’m one of Ross’ people sent to fuck you up with mind games, in which case whether you come with me or not it’s going to happen anyway. What have you got to lose by trusting me?”

It’s the least comforting thing anybody _ever_ could have said at that moment. Strangely, it makes Bruce’s lip curl up in a small smile, “Alright,” he agrees.

Maybe-Tony gives a decisive nod, like he’s closing a business deal. “Good. Now, can you get your hand off my chest? You’re not wearing pants and it’s weird.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning/Spoilers: Massive quantity of angst. And some slight mention of non-graphic, off screen torture.

Forget Steve’s really long, really boring lecture on appropriate use of force against the humans following Ross’ orders, and the fact that he’s not supposed to be in combat at all, Tony is going to kill each and every one of them that is involved in the state Bruce is in. Slowly if he has his way.

It hasn’t even been a week and Bruce is already thin and damaged and hurt. He flinches away when Tony moves suddenly or when he raises his voice, won’t meet his eyes, fucking _begged_ Tony not to hurt him any more when he went to remove the IV and Bruce is gentle when he’s not y’know a giant green rage monster, but the man is all steel and controlled fire, he’s not soft, not breakable, not _weak_. Yeah, Tony’s going to hook up General Ross to a car battery and see if that’s more fun from the other side. He can barely see through the red rage obscuring his vision, it’s all he can do to keep his hands gentle and steady where he’s helping Bruce off the trolley and into a sweat-stained sheet sarong. They have proper, clean, clothes on the Quinjet, but essentially empty or not, Tony’s not about to parade Bruce naked through the corridors of the base.

It takes almost as long to get Bruce dressed and across the room as it did to convince him to come with Tony in the first place and the itch at the base of Tony’s skull keeps reminding him of how much time has passed. Still, there was never any real danger of the Avengers losing this fight and none of them found him and Bruce and if they had all gone back to the Quinjet for whatever reason, they’d have found him missing and the security footage still all over the screens. Which means they must still be pinning down all the base personnel. They reach the door, and Tony tightens his arm around Bruce’s waist in order to support him one handed and reaches out to unlock it when it bursts inwards on them.

They both leap back, but Bruce isn’t really up to leaping anywhere and he falls with a surprised squeak, dragging Tony with him. Tony just about has time to see General Ross escorting Steve in at gunpoint before he hits the ground in an ungainly sprawl which forces another pained protest from Bruce as Tony’s arms and legs dig into him. Steve has given up on warily watching Ross and is scowling down at the pair of them, well at Tony, and Steve never does anything quite as crass as swear, but that expression clearly means he’s screaming _oh for fuck’s sake Tony_ in his head. For his part, Tony is pretty sure he’s been in more embarrassing situations than being caught in a military base (against orders), sprawled on top of a mostly naked Bruce Banner by Captain America and a five star General, but he can’t actually think of any.

Tony curls his legs under him, but he knows he can’t stand without betraying just how much trouble his chest is still giving him, not a piece of information he wants either Steve or Ross to have, so he moves far enough to the side that he’s not squashing Bruce anymore and tilts his head back to smirk up at the pair insolently. “What’s up guys? You’re late Captain.”

“I can see that,” Steve says, dividing his attention between the gun Ross is still pointing unwaveringly at him and Bruce’s battered and shivering form and somehow still managing to give Tony a frown and a disapproving eyebrow. “I thought you were going to stay on the Quinjet?”

“You guys were busy. I found Bruce.”

“Tony...” Steve trails off, apparently he doesn’t want Ross to know just how injured Tony is either. Tony widens his sneer a little and cocks an eyebrow, hoping Steve can read his thanks. “Is he..?”

“He’ll be fine. Just needs the creature comforts of home.” Tony flickers an eye very slightly towards Ross’ revolver and Steve gives a tiny nod in return. The pair prepare themselves, a perfectly choreographed team.

“I wouldn’t,” says Ross calmly. It draws Tony’s attention and he sees Steve move too. The revolver is no longer pointed at the Cap’s spine, instead it is aimed with unwavering intensity at Bruce. Steve doesn’t tense because he’s too well trained to telegraph his moves that way, but somehow Ross knows, “Don’t move Captain. No, in fact, up against that wall there.”

Tony and Steve share another look, then Steve’s lips tighten and he complies. He’s too far away now to beat a bullet. Tony still doesn’t move, doesn’t even change his impudent expression, “We have to stop meeting like this Ross,” he sneers, sensing the shocked gasp of air Steve takes at the way he’s mocking someone who can put a bullet in any of them with the least provocation.

“You never learn do you Stark?”

“And what am I supposed to be learning from you?”

“That just because your daddy’s rich doesn’t mean you can take other people’s toys. Now stand up.” Tony is wearing Natasha’s patented I-can-and-will-rip-you-apart-with-my-teeth-expression and it, somewhat hysterically, occurs to Steve to wonder if he learned it by osmosis or if she’s been giving him lessons. He curls a lip at Ross’ command and doesn’t move, but when the hammer clicks back he puts a hand on Bruce’s arm and looks at him for a split second. Whatever he sees in Bruce’s face makes his expression darken further and without another word he presses his right hand tightly over his damaged ribs and levers himself to his feet. He doesn’t make a sound, but the skin around his eyes is pinched and the movement is slow. Ross’ sadistic smile widens a little and Steve shifts edgily onto the balls of his feet. “I told you to stay still Captain,” Ross reminds him without looking around, and, seething, Steve pushes his shoulders back against the wall, eyes idly flicking to the still open door behind the General, seeking a way out of this mess.

“Now what?” Tony asks bluntly. “You can’t shoot Bruce, he’s immune to bullets, you’ll just be pissing the Big Guy off.”

His eyes are determinedly on Ross, but Steve knows that all of his senses are firmly attuned to Bruce, still crouched and shivering on the floor beside him and on Steve himself, determinedly not shifting restlessly where he stands.

Tony takes a tiny half step to his left, he’s now firmly in front of Bruce and, as much as it warms Steve’s heart to see Tony Stark, who so prides himself on his carefully cultivated devil-may-care attitude make such a blatantly protective and self sacrificial gesture, it infuriates him too. Tony isn’t in good enough shape to physically defend _himself_ , let alone anyone else, and Steve had had a _plan_ and Tony’s refusal to wait has ruined everything. The slight movement he catches out of the corner of his eye relaxes him slightly though, plan B has just arrived.

Steve doesn’t so much as move an eyelid, and there is no way Tony can have heard anything, but it is mere seconds after Steve has seen the movement by the open door that Tony is spinning on his heel, shielding Bruce as much as possible with his own body and shouting, “Now!”

To his credit, Ross doesn’t waste time gaping at the billionaire and instead jerks sharply to the side. The motion saves him from the full force of the kick Natasha had been aiming at his lower back. The revolver swings up again, this time pointed at her, and the sweep Tony sends out aiming to take him off his feet simply lacks the power needed to move the older man, Tony still being breathless from the stabbing pain in his side. “The so called Avengers,” Ross crows, “all held at bay by one little service revolver.”

He doesn’t scream when the arrow pierces his hand, but the gun drops from his fingers with a clatter and Steve calmly scoops it up, moving to centre it on Ross’ chest and stand shoulder to shoulder with Clint, bow already drawn and ready. “There are six Avengers,” Natasha reminds him, smiling sweetly in a way that makes normal people run for the hills.

Ross makes a choking sound, half pain, half barely leashed fury. “Don’t,” Steve cuts him off, “You went after one of our own, you deserve everything my colleagues could do to you. Sir.”

Natasha’s smile widens, and Tony feels a giggle creeping up his throat. Releasing it is a bad idea though, because all it does is turn Steve’s attention on him. “You...you I’ll deal with when we get back. Get Bruce to the Quinjet. We’ll be along in a moment.”

It’s on the tip Tony’s tongue to ask if he’s being sent to his room, but then Natasha just _looks_ at him and honestly, Bruce is in a whole lot of pain, so he’s just being a good friend by doing as Steve tells him, he’s not running away at all. The sound Bruce makes as Tony pulls him back to his feet makes all the Avengers turn steely glares on Ross and Tony can’t resist leaning in close to say, “You’re lucky I’ve got more important things to do _General_. Whatever these guys do? What I would have done would have been worse.” Steve raises an eyebrow at him as he passes and Tony nods. He’s fine. He can manage. “Find out what drugs they gave him,” he shouts back over his shoulder. He passes Thor on the way and brushes off the blonde’s concerned exclamation with a jerk of his head and an admonishment to get the rest of the bad guys.

Thor’s distinctive bellowing tone carries down the metallic hallways and Tony distinctly hears him say, “We have kept your men alive. They were bound to you and obligated to follow your commands. I have no reason to show you that mercy.” It raises a snort even from Bruce, who’s clearly in agony even if he’s too stubborn to show it.

Once on board, he is clearly hoping Tony will throw some clothes at him and go and watch TV or something, but it’s painfully obvious Bruce can’t manage alone. He looks wrecked. And Tony doesn’t harbour any desires to get up close and personal with Bruce’s junk because Bruce is hot and all but he’s not _Pepper hot (_ because Pepper is smokin’ and awesome and she can do this thing with her tongue which just makes him melt and he doesn’t understand why she isn’t already married to someone better than him but he doesn’t want to question it in case she realises this too) but Bruce also turns into Hulk and rips through clothes like a nine year old on Christmas morning rips through wrapping paper so it’s really not anything he hasn’t seen before.

“Thanks,” says Bruce softly.

Tony doesn’t really know what for: for coming after him, for getting him dressed, for making sure he was at least somewhat covered before letting the others hover all over him, but he does know he doesn’t want to hear Bruce’s humble gratitude. When Bruce forgets the aura of placid calm he likes to project to reassure the people around him, he’s more arrogant than even Tony can manage, which is saying something. It’s Ross who wanted to see Bruce stripped to nothing but his most base instincts, Ross who treated him as less than a person, Ross who no doubt made him feel grateful for the courtesy of the pitifully inadequate sheet. Tony neither needs, nor wants, to hear it. He smiles widely, “Yup, saved your life from evil scientists, got you jeans that fit – designer by the way – and made sure your modesty was covered before Natasha gets up here, because let’s face it, we’ve all had reactions looking at _her_ after battle and she would murder you. Cheerfully. I want an awesome thank you gift. Angelina Jolie maybe.”

There’s a very slight pause, during which Tony thinks he might have horribly miscalculated, “You’re kind of a dick,” Bruce says at last, “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Ummm...I can’t really hear you over the sound of how awesome I am, but just have Angelina delivered to my penthouse.”

“Angelina Jolie? Really?”

“...Yes? What are you Bruce? Blind?”

“I just have good taste. I prefer Liv Tyler.”

“Wouldn’t say no to Liv Tyler...make sure she has the elf ears on.”

“You ask a lot, it was just one tiny military base.”

And there it is, Bruce’s acknowledgement that this really wasn’t that big a deal, that Tony would have done it for any one of them. He’s still scrambling for an appropriate comeback through the relief fluttering in his gut when he hears the others. His expression drops, “Yeah, one tiny military base and a very pissed off Steve,” he mutters.

Bruce doesn’t laugh out loud, but he very rarely does. He does smile though, wide and unrestrained and Tony is relieved he can still do that. Then his head drops backward, like a puppet with the strings cut, and his eyes close as he falls down into sleep. Bruce hates sleeping, afraid of what his subconscious will relive, so the sight of it warms Tony’s heart still further. He only sleeps where he feels safe.

 


	9. Chapter 9

When Bruce opens his eyes again for a long moment he thinks he’s back where he started, that it really was all a hallucination or an unusually vivid dream. He’s looking up at a non descript white ceiling, the room smells medicinal. He’s about to close his eyes against the onrush of tears, the surge of white hot fury that feels like barbed wire under his skin when the Other Guy is ready to rip free and can’t when Tony’s tired, white, scowling face comes into view as his friend leans over him.

Bruce’s breath whooshes out of him in one long rush, the relief calming the Other Guy, roaring just beneath the surface. “Tony?” he rasps, only realising at that moment how dry his mouth is.

Tony’s lips twitch in a very slight half smile and he leans over Bruce to grab a bottle of water off the side and holds it out to him. “Yep me. And I’m alive by the way, not sure how much you remember from our escape.”

Bruce nods slowly and levers himself into sitting position with a groan and takes a slurp of the water. “Why am I here?”

“Detoxing,” Tony answers, “from whatever shit they were filling you with to keep the Big Guy down, and you’re dehydrated because I wouldn’t let them put an IV in you.”

“Thank you,” Bruce says fervently, knowing he wouldn’t have reacted well to waking up with a needle still stuck in his arm. “Are you OK? And...Steve? Natasha? The others were there right? I sort of remember Thor...”

“Everyone’s fine, Steve’s pissed with me though so I am charging you with reminding him how awesome I am and how, since I saved your life, he should stop giving me disapproving looks.”

“What did you do?”

Tony’s scowl deepens, “Nothing...”

Bruce simply raises an eyebrow and waits.

“I wasn’t supposed to go into the base,” Tony eventually admits, looking like a little boy as he talks to his knees.

This time it is Bruce whose expression darkens. “You were hurt weren’t you? What did... _he_ do to you after you knocked me out?”

It doesn’t escape Tony’s notice that Bruce doesn’t say Ross’ name. “Nothing...not much...you know how Steve is.”

Bruce takes a deep calming breath. “I do. I also know how you are.”

This time, Tony’s expression tightens for real. This isn’t the Tony Stark’s public persona throwing a prima donna tantrum, nor is it a put-on ploy to gain Bruce’s sympathy. “I couldn’t just _leave_ you,” he bites out before his eyes cut away from Bruce’s and he flushes at the admission but nonetheless goes on, “I told them I wouldn’t let them take you and I _did_. It was my fault so...” he gives a little shrug as his voice trails off.

“I’d guess since you were obviously hurt enough to _let_ Steve ban you from the base you didn’t exactly let them take me,” Bruce tries to soothe. Tony just gives another shrug and still doesn’t raise his eyes. “Thanks,” Bruce says softly.

This time he’s rewarded by a flash of fiery dark eyes as Tony looks up once more, “Well you know, someone needs to keep DUM-E company in the lab.”

Bruce nods agreeably, “So it’s not like you had a choice.”

Tony stabs a finger at him, “Exactly, that’s what I’ve been telling Steve.”

“What made him think you were going to listen anyway? He has _met_ you right?”

“I resent that implication,” Tony mutters, the scowl back in full force but offset this time by the laughter in his eyes.

“I’m an optimist,” says a deep, weary sounding voice from the door.

They both turn to face the speaker. It’s Steve, of course, face just as drawn and tired as Tony’s. “Hey Steve,” says Bruce, something that he didn’t even know was twisted in his heart loosening at the sight of another member of the team. “How long have I been here? How long have _you_ been here?”

“Long enough,” Steve answers with a sigh. “Ready to get out of here? The Doctors said if you woke up without hulking out you could deal with the symptoms on your own. As long as it’s not causing massive chemical problems in your brain whatever they said it was isn’t addictive and shouldn’t be worse than a hangover.”

“And I,” Tony interjects, “am an expert at hangovers. If you give me eight hours to get drunk, we can suffer together.”

“Tony,” Steve says repressively, but Bruce just laughs.

 

The journey back to Avengers Tower isn’t exactly a long one for which Bruce is grateful because every metre they draw closer sends an indefinable tension through his body. He’s not exactly sure why, if it’s because the days he spent in Ross’ clutches were days spent thinking he’d never see home again or if it’s the knowledge that he’s returning to the place where he was taken. Tony fills the car with chatter about the security upgrades he’s going to make to ensure sure this never happens again and in no time at all, they’re pulling into the underground garage.

Since it’s the middle of the afternoon, Bruce expects Natasha and Clint are at SHIELD and Pepper’s doing whatever her job as CEO of Stark Industries requires this week so it’s a shock when the lift door opens onto the Avenger’s common floor and there’s a banner stretching across the length of the hallway reading **Welcome Home Bruce** , the others all standing under it holding an enormous chocolate cake.

Bruce pulls his glasses off to clean them, trying to rein in his pounding heart from the surprise and to cover how flustered he is turns on Tony, “This is your doing.”

“Me?” Tony is a good actor, but wounded innocence is not his specialty, “Well...yes. I didn’t think you’d want a whole party though. It’s just a cake for movie night.”

This time Bruce can’t hide his surprise. “Movie night? It’s not Thursday.” There’s a pause. “It’s not Thursday right?”

“It is not,” Thor reassures and Tony mutters a snide remark through a wide smile about trusting Thor to know when it’s Thursday since it’s named after him, and how people call him egocentric, but Bruce isn’t really listening, he’s looking around the others bewildered and uncertain, suddenly wondering if he’s still on Ross’ table and if this is just a vivid dream, complete with dreamlike surrealism.

As the thought takes hold he falters slightly, instinctively taking a step back towards the relative safety and privacy of the elevator. Someone catches him around the arm in a tight grip and he can’t quite suppress the whimper, sure when he looks up it will be to a twisted victorious smirk. He clamps his eyes tightly shut. “Hey,” says Steve’s soothing voice, “hey Bruce, it’s fine, it’s just us, it’s fine.”

Bruce takes a deep steadying breath and then another. He recognises the hand supporting him around his bicep now, it’s Steve’s – warm and strong and supportive as always. He can feel Tony’s heat and the buzzing feel of the ARC reactor against his back. He forces his eyes open. The others are still standing, wearing patient smiles, not judging him for his minor freak out. He feels a flush creep up the back of his neck, but it’s red, not green so he doesn’t allow it to bother him. “So,” he says, striving for normalcy, “Movie night. Not on a Thursday anymore?”

He’s half expecting an explanation about S.H.I.E.L.D’s new training regime on a Thursday or perhaps a bar with live music that night so they’ve decided to make that going out night instead. He is not expecting Natasha to fix him with a disgusted look and say, “Since when do we hold movie night when someone is missing?”

She’s right, it’s something they never do when she or Clint are on solo missions, or when Thor is in Asgard. It’s the thing which finally unwinds the last of the tension and uncertainty from his heart. He’s definitely home. “So what are we watching?” he asks, and if his voice is a little choked the others are polite enough not to mention it.

Tony throws an arm around his shoulders, steering him towards the big recreation room, grabbing an enormous bowl filled with M&Ms on the way, “Whatever you want Bruce. It’s your turn to choose.”

 

 

THE END

There may be a sequel about the spy in S.H.I.E.L.D who betrayed Bruce to General Ross in the first place. I have some ideas what I want to do there but I haven’t quite worked out all the problems and it didn’t really fit into this fic. So...

Anyway, let me know what you think, feedback always welcome.


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